


The Drilling Rig, Part 4

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universes, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:53:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair begins to suspect that he may have let himself in for more than he anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drilling Rig, Part 4

## The Drilling Rig, Part 4

by Scribe

Author's website:  <http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles>

Standard disclaimers pertaining to ownership of the characters. This story is not meant to reflect on the actors who portrayed the characters.

This first appeared in My Mongoose Ezine. Thanks to Elaine for the beta.

* * *

Part Four: Settling In 

If the weather had been any better, Blair would have been on deck to catch a first glimpse of the platform as they neared it. Not even the most seasoned crew member felt like leaving the warm snugness of the lounge for the cold, driving rain outside, though. Besides, it wasn't anything new to _them_. Blair supposed it was kind of like the African natives who grew up near a game preserve. Their attitude toward a tourist's excitement over seeing an elephant, would be amused and slightly condescending. After all, it was just a part of _their_ daily routine. 

As it was, Blair didn't leave the room till it was time for him to make his way across to the platform. He didn't like having to step out onto the landing and make his way up the outside stairs, no matter _how_ secure the safety railing was. 

Up on the platform, a handsome, burly black man in foul weather gear, called out, "All right. Where's my new help?" 

Luke went to him, smiling. "Hey, Mr. Banks!" 

They shook hands. "Luke, glad to see you back. I know now I'll have at least one person I won't have to worry about." 

Luke pulled Blair over. "This is Blair Sandburg." 

Simon Banks studied the young man shrewdly. "So, you're going to be my second. That means you're in charge of half the meals on this floating madhouse, Sandburg. Can you handle it?" 

"I'll have to, won't I?" When Banks frowned, Blair said, "Yes, sir. I'll handle it, or break my neck trying." 

"You won't have to do _that_ , son. If you _don't_ handle it, _I'll_ break your neck _for_ you." The boat's crew were piling bags, boxes, and crates on the platform. Simon started ticking off items on a clipboard he held. "You two can start by humping those supplies into the galley. I want them out of this weather, pronto. Luke, show Blair the ropes." 

"Will do." Luke picked up a fifty pound bag of flour and heaved it up on his shoulder. "C'mon, grab anything that won't do good in the wet first thing." 

Blair snagged two twenty-five pound bags of sugar by the blue plastic handles that were sewn onto the stiff paper bags and started after him. *I got a feeling I'm gonna be chipping chunks off this stuff and grinding it in the food processor later.* He worked steadily for almost two hours, passing in and out of the rain, carrying heavy loads. _And I thought this was going to be an easy job. Pfft._

Once they had everything inside, Simon examined the heaped piles, nodding in satisfaction. "Okay. Now you just need to get everything squared away, then you can go to your bunks. I want the perishables put away first, and you make _damn_ sure you rotate everything. I don't want to get to the back box of something and find out it went out of date a month ago." 

Once again Blair, beginning to feel distinctly weary, hauled heavy loads back and forth. The freezer was a revelation It was _huge_ , bigger than any apartment he'd ever lived in, and almost as cold as some of them seemed to have been in winter. *First, I get drenched, now, I get chilled. Lovely. I hope they have Nyquil on board.* His hands got so numb that he was grateful when it was time to move the cases that held six gallon-sized containers of fruits, vegetables, pudding, sauces, or condiments. 

Finally, when Blair was beginning to wonder if he could hurry and catch the boat back to land, Banks was satisfied. He clapped Blair on the shoulder. "Usually you'll take the midnight meal and breakfast, but I'm gonna have mercy on you your first day. I'll throw something together for the late crew, and you'll just have to take care of breakfast. I'll set up some of my famous breakfast pizza, too. That way, all you'll have to worry about, really is frying up some ham steaks and bacon, baking some home fries: a few little odds and ends like that. Rafe will have the bread, coffee cake and muffins ready for you." Rafe was the platform baker, an almost ridiculously good looking, dark haired man. Nice enough but, like Luke, not his type. 

"Thanks. So, when do I need to report for KP?" 

Banks frowned. "Son, what you're gonna be doing is a hell of a lot more difficult and responsible than simple kitchen patrol. We have the assistants for the scut work and prep. Don't tell me you don't take this seriously." 

"No, sir." 

"You damn well better not. The men on this rig work hard. They don't have a hell of a lot in their lives here outside their work, and let me tell you, they _cherish_ the little comforts. They are damn _particular_ about their food. You don't fuck around with it, _ever_ , or... Well, like they say, it's a long swim back home." 

Blair winced. "Got it." 

"I hope so. I need a second I can trust, Sandburg, and I'm not much more patient than the roughnecks and roustabouts, because I'm not going to have _anyone_ making me look bad to the company. I have a kid back home to support, and you don't endanger a man's support for his family. Now, from what I've seen so far, you're not afraid of hard work, and you can follow instructions. Keep it up, show a little common sense, and you should do okay. Now, the shifts change at eight, a.m. and p.m.. Meals are at one p.m., six-thirty a.m. and p.m., and midnight. Like I said, you're on for midnight and breakfast. You'll be feeding somewhere between fifty and sixty men a meal, unless they get wind that there's gonna be something they really like. Then almost the entire crew finds _some_ way to make it in." 

"I'd suggest you get in here at least at four since it's your first day, and you're not used to the galley. Try not to fix the food too far ahead so it gets cold, or leave it in the warming oven so long it turns to rubber. I'll leave the pizza in the refrigerator, with written instructions on the message board. Now, go try to get a little rest." 

Blair gathered his duffle bags from the galley entrance, where he'd stowed them, and went in search of his quarters. Thanks to a couple of comedians, he ended up in some sort of tool shed, once again drenched and shivering. Reluctant to leave the meager shelter, he just stood there for a few moment, swearing very quietly to himself. 

The door opened, and Jim stepped inside. "What are you doing out here," he asked curiously. "No one ever comes out to this structure this time of day." 

"I have a lousy sense of direction. I was _looking_ for wherever the hell it is I'm supposed to sleep." 

"And someone sent you here?" Blair scowled. "Shit, some of the guys take teasing too far. Come on, I know where the assistant cook usually bunks." He led the softly growling Blair back out into the rain. 

Blair's room proved to be handy to the galley, just a few turns down a corridor. It wasn't bad. In fact, it was a lot better than some of the dorm rooms he'd stayed in. The bed, though bolted to the wall, was wider than a standard single, and looked comfortable. There was a desk and chair, a small closet, dresser drawers and storage cupboards built into the wall, and his own toilet, complete with head. 

"Some of the crew with more responsibility get their own rooms, " Jim explained. "The cooks need to be able to rest whenever they can. Besides them, there's the company man, the floor bosses, the tool pushers... I'm head tool pusher on the night shift, so I have my own room, too. You'll have to use the communal showers, but they have private stalls." 

"Head tool pusher, huh?" Blair dumped his bags on his bunk, giving Jim a lazy grin. "My, now _there's_ an evocative job description. Calls up all _kinds_ of interesting mental images." Again he blushed. It was really delicious, seeing such a big man get red in the face for some reason other than anger. "I guess we ought to exchange full names if we're going to be living on this ocean bound tabletop." He offered his hand. "Sandburg." 

"Ellison." They shook. 

Blair cocked his head. "Sooo, 'Jim'?" 

"Says James on the birth certificate, but I mostly go by Jim." 

"You don't lie about your name with your dates. You just... don't tell everything." 

Jim cleared his throat. "About that. Look, out here I don't actually, er, _fraternize_." 

Blair crossed his arms, giving him a level stare. "You weren't asked." 

"Oh. Okay. Fine." 

"Yes. Good. Now, if you don't mind, I need to take a nap. Four o' clock is going to come awful early." He pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it on a chair, then idly scratched the still slightly damp pelt on his chest, combing his fingers through the more than respectable growth. Even with all the hair on his head, the amount of his body hair _still_ surprised most of his first time lovers. 

Ellison... Well, he stared. There wasn't a polite term for it. He just sort of fixated on Blair's chest. Specifically, he seemed to be drawn to the nipple ring. It flashed mellowly in the bright light of the cabin, gleaming among the dark curls on his chest. Blair was used to it drawing a little attention when he took off his shirt, but this... The guy's expression was going blank. 

"Ellison, are you all right?" Jim blinked rapidly, and the blank look left his eyes. 

"Uh... Yeah." 

"You were off in the Twilight Zone there for a minute." 

He grimaced, obviously irritated with himself, muttering, "Shit." Seeing Blair's concerned and curious look, he said firmly, "Just got a little distracted, that's all. I ought to go catch some zees, too. You have a good night." 

"Same to you, man." Blair shut the door after him, then turned around and leaned against it. *You weren't asked. Not yet, anyway.* Not at all displeased with Ellison's reactions, he stripped and crawled into bed, setting the little travel alarm he'd splurged on for three-thirty. 

It hardly seemed like he'd closed his eyes before the damn thing was chirping at him to get up. Blair winced as his body berated him for not having the good sense to treat it to a hot soak, or at least a long, hot shower after working as a pack beast the night before. _Quitcher bitchin',_ he scolded his sore muscles. *At least you're not hauling bricks and two-by-fours like  last year.* 

Blair hadn't been instructed, but he knew enough about food service work to put his hair in a tail, then pin it up and cover it with a hairnet before he went into the galley to start breakfast at four that morning. He found a clean overall apron hanging on a hook near the door, and put it on. It was so large that he had to wrap the ties back around his narrow waist and tie them in front, and the bow ended up being floppy. 

He was just trying to figure out a way to look a little less like the Pillsbury Doughboy when Luke stumbled in, yawning and rubbing his eyes. "Hiyah, boss." 

"Boss?" 

He nodded. There was a pot of coffee (Blair discovered that the coffee maker was never really shut off. Platforms ran through them steadily enough to buy in bulk.), and Luke helped himself to a cup. "You're head man on this shift, Simon's head on the other. I am your peon. Anything special you want me to start with?" 

"Just give me some idea of what the hell to do, man. Where do I start?" 

Luke smiled good-naturedly, seeming a little puzzled by Blair's indecision. "Well, there ain't too much this morning. Just make sure the oven's set to the right temp an' slide the pizzas in to cook, make sure they don't burn. Slap the ham and bacon on the griddle an' tend it. I'll start scrubbin' and slicin' spuds, and do the onions for the fries. Pour a good glop of bacon grease in the big pans when you go to bake 'em. Keeps 'em from stickin' too bad, and gives 'em a nice flavor." 

"And ups the fat content about six or seven hundred per cent." 

Luke gave him a polite look that said he had no idea what Blair was yammering about. "Then one of us can set out the pastries an' bread, and put up the toasters." 

"Toasters?" 

Luke nodded. "Sure. Can't make the toast in advance, can we? Gets cold an' tough. Fellas toast it as they need it. I make sure the plates an stuff are out, an' put out the butter an' jellies, an' the boxes of cereal. When you're ready to dish up the food, I set out the milk an' help serve." He shrugged. "Not much to it. Breakfast is pretty simple 'less you take a mind to do fancy eggs or pancakes." 

Blair sighed. "I think I need some of that caffeine." 

Luke poured him a cup. "Most folks on the rigs are addicted to it, in one form or 'nother. Welcome to the club." 

Blair found brief, but thorough, instructions pinned to a cork board. He turned up the temperature on the ovens, and slid in the massive pans of dough covered with eggs, cheese, chipped onions, and cooked sausage. He'd never tried such a concoction before, but the mouth- watering smell that soon was wafting from the oven made him curious. 

The griddle was as big as a dining room table, and he quickly loaded it with slabs of ham steak and pounds of bacon. He was soon nursing a couple of blisters, having quickly learned that you put the bacon in the _back_ to avoid splatters. Once everything got going, he was kept busy constantly flipping and moving pork products, so that they cooked evenly. 

Meanwhile Luke was using a vegetable brush on what looked like a peck of potatoes. Then he sat down with them and started carving the eyes out, and slicing them into thin rounds. He handled the wicked sharp paring knife with admirable speed and skill. Blair was sure that he, himself, would have added some protein to the dish by chopping off a finger if he tried to move that fast. "Good idea, leaving the skins on. Saves most of the vitamins and minerals." 

Luke shrugged, blade flashing and creamy rounds dropping into the bowl in front of him. "Don't know about that. Just saves a hell of a lot of time. We _got_ frozen, cut spuds, but Simon likes to use up the fresh ones first, 'fore they can start to spoil." 

They worked well together, the chores going smoothly. Luke was a bit doubtful when Blair got some red and green sweet peppers from the vegetable bin, minced them, and sprinkled them over the potatoes before sliding them into the oven. "I guess it'll make 'em _look_ kinda pretty," he said doubtfully. 

"Luke, ever had roasted peppers?" 

"Yeah, they're pretty good." 

"Trust me." 

Luke grinned. "My daddy always told me that when anyone said those two words to me I was to cover my butt real fast." 

It all took more time than Blair had anticipated. It was a good thing he had started early, because the first men were already lined up and grumbling when he and Luke slid the last pans into the steam table and started serving. 

And the line didn't seem to get any _shorter_ , no matter how many he served. "Luke," he whispered, comparing the fast dwindling stores of food to the line still left to serve, and not coming up with a comforting proportion. "What the _hell_? Simon said about fifty guys." 

"Unless there's somethin' they really like, an' they're _real_ fond of the breakfast pizza. Oh, an' most of the crew usually comes by to scope out a new cook. Guess Simon shoulda warned you."" 

"I guess he should." He was going to be scraping the bottom of the pan on breakfast meats in a minute or two, and there was still a couple of dozen men in line. "Can you handle this alone for a little while I throw some more meat on the griddle?" 

"Sure. I was kinda wondering why you were so skimpy this morning." 

"Well, why didn't you _say_ something?" 

He shrugged. "You're the boss. It ain't my place." 

Blair hurried back into the galley and started throwing bacon and ham on the griddle, muttering, "Terrific. What little respect I get in this job may get me pitched over the side." There wasn't time for more home fries, so he quickly threw together a pot of instant grits. They could have those with butter and sugar. Red necks liked grits, didn't they? 

Luke was scraping the last crumbs of fries out of the corner of the pan before a darkly muttering group when Blair hurried back in with the fresh supplies. The grumbling eased as they began to pile pork products on the offered plates. Some of the men nodded approval at the grits, though there were inquiries along the line of 'If you're gonna have ham, an' you're gonna have grits, then why the hell doncha have red eye gravy?' _Red eye gravy?_ Blair had no idea what that was, but the very idea made him shudder. 

He was down to the last meager spoonfuls when the last man came through the line. Jim Ellison. He held out a plate that showed smears of his previous helpings. Blair, spoon in hand, hand on hip, regarded him tiredly. "Seconds?" 

"Thirds. Pretty good grub." 

Blair sighed. "Thank you." He scraped the last of everything onto Jim's plate, then threw the spoon into an empty pan with a clatter. "And anyone else is just shit out of luck. Christ, and I though this was gonna be an _easy_ job." 

Jim grinned as he strolled over to one of the tables. "What ever gave you _that_ idea?" 

All Blair wanted to do was go and fall back into his bunk, but there was no time. Luke had already started to carry the empty pans back into the galley, so Blair started to gather up the ravaged platters of baked goods. About the only thing that was left was what looked like a prune danish and a bran muffin. He was suddenly ravenous. All this time handling huge amounts of food, and he'd been too busy to feel hungry. 

He was just about to pick up the danish when a skinny guy that he knew for a _fact_ had consumed at least a pound of bacon (post cooking weight) hurried over. "Waitta minnit!" He grabbed up the danish, tearing off half of it with one bite. "I dun't us'lly like dese yere," he confided, giving a charming view of half masticated food. "But Rafe can do 'em pretty good, eh?" 

"I wouldn't know." *Okay. Looks like it's a bran muffin for breakfast.* 

As he started to walk away, the man reached out and grabbed the muffin. "An' I t'ink I'll jus' have me this wit' my coffee later." 

"Fine. Enjoy." Blair muttered to himself as the man walked away. He slammed the platters into a stack. "I _knew_ there was _some_ reason why I'd been avoiding responsibility all my life." As he carried the plates back to the galley, he wondered what Ellison, sitting on the other side of the room, was grinning about. 

* * *

End The Drilling Rig, Part 4 by Scribe: poet77665@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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